


Play With Me

by Jenanigans1207



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Public Sex, Smut, and they make the most of them, az wears a suit from this century, fancy dressing, slightly possessive Aziraphale, theater sex, they have box seats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28584738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207
Summary: Crowley gazes down at his hand, eternally thankful for the dim lights of the theater as he tries to piece together what, exactly, is happening. Six-thousand years of obeying a firmly drawn line seems to be evaporating in front of him as he sees Aziraphale’s hand creep higher and higher yet.Finally, when it reaches a point that Crowley can’t ignore, he turns to gaze at Aziraphale— Aziraphale, who’s cheeks are visibly flushed, even in the dark light of the room. “Angel?”“I can stop.” Aziraphale replies, his voice somehow loud and clear despite the performance going on in front of them. “If you’d like.”Crowley swallows, his throat thick and his tongue heavy. “And if I don’t want you to?”Aziraphale turns to meet his gaze and his blue eyes are beautiful and completely unguarded. “Then I can keep going.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 298
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Play With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NaroMoreau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/gifts).



> A belated Christmas gift to my darling wife, Naro. Thank you for being a blessing to me, for caring for me and bringing me so much joy. Thank you more for enabling me and all my awfully terrible ideas, I do hope you enjoy it and I certainly hope you know how much I absolutely adore you, baby <3
> 
> This is truly just some fancy smut in a public place. Please do not read if that's not your cup of tea. If that IS your cup of tea, though, I hope you find it as thrilling as Aziraphale and Crowley do <3

He could use a miracle to do up his tie.

With just a snap of his fingers it could be knotted perfectly as his throat, falling smoothly down his chest and waiting to be tucked into his jacket. It would take less than a second— not even the length of one of his erratic heartbeats. He could absolutely do it.

But he doesn’t.

His fingers tremble as he loops the long end of the tie around for what feels like the hundredth time, the fabric sliding too easily against itself and slipping through his fingers. Crowley sighs and drops both ends of the tie, allowing it to hang loosely around his neck, limp and mocking as he stares at himself in the mirror. 

This is ridiculous. It’s not like he’s never been to the theater before— with or  _ without _ Aziraphale. It’s not like he’s never had to tie a tie, never found himself seated in his nicest, elbow to elbow to the rest of the crowd as he tried to escape reality for a bit— reality and, perhaps, his memories. But something felt different this time,. There had been something in the way Aziraphale had invited him, something about the wicked delight in his eyes when he’d murmured  _ I promise you’ll enjoy yourself, dear boy _ . 

Those god forsaken words had haunted Crowley for the last week as he had anxiously awaited, checking his calendar what felt like  _ hourly _ . For an immortal being who had passed centuries in the blink of an eye, millennia blending in to each other like two colors of a sunset, mixing together until it was nothing but a beautiful memory, the length of this week dragged far than he even thought possible. Each day alone felt like one of the decades he had lived through in the span of a breath, each minute dragging into hours until he was ready to combust into flames with just the anticipation of it all.

In all likelihood, it was just in his head. Crowley was aware of that, painfully aware. He knew Aziraphale far too well to think that the angel would mean anything he implied, that he would know the weight of his coy looks. His ability to be purposefully dense, to do things without thinking— of the consequences or the implications— were perhaps his two most refined skills after six-thousand years on Earth. It was masterful, the way he could say something that took Crowley’s breath away without even blinking, the way he could touch Crowley so casually— a brush of knuckles, the ghost of a hand pressed to the small of his back— like it wasn’t searing permanent brands into Crowley’s skin. This talent of his was as impressive as it was frustrating but after six-thousand-odd-years of trial and error, Crowley feels like he’s finally fallen properly in step with Aziraphale, so he knows better than to assume anything.

But, Lord help him— not that She ever had, not that She would start now— there had  _ definitely _ been a knowing smirk at the corner of Aziraphale’s lips when Crowley had accepted. And, as much as Crowley doesn’t want to read into it, as much as he has learned his lesson about assuming there’s something there when there isn’t, he has  _ never _ seen that look on Aziraphale’s face before.

Knowing that he’s nearly out of time, having wasted a large part of it with the same idle fantasies he’s been trying not to entertain for a week, Crowley picks up the ends of his tie and gives it one last go. It’s certainly not as beautiful as it would be if he just miracles it, but he manages to wrangle it into a knot nonetheless and smooths it down his chest. It’s his favorite tie— it falls somewhere between red and orange, the color shifting depending on the shadows It catches like flames in the light and it’s about as close to his hair color as possible.The rest of the suit is stark and black, even the vest and the shirt— and  _ definitely _ his sunglasses— leaving only the tie and his hair to serve as a pop of color. He looks sharp, if he does say so himself.

It’s his first time wearing this suit— he’d been saving it for a special occasion— and he’s pleased to see the way it cuts sharp angles around his body, to see how it makes him look just as long and sinuous as he actually is. 

With an approving nod and as much calm as he could muster, Crowley finally leaves his flat, striding out of the building with just a few long steps and sliding into the drivers seat of the Bentley with ease. She roars to life underneath his fingers and he barely even has to think where to go before she’s already going, the path to the bookshop perhaps the only one she really knows by heart. Crowley keeps his hands on the wheel, staring generally out the windshield, even if he’s not actually seeing anything in front of him. It’s half autopilot and half trust in his beautiful car— she’d never let him down and Crowley knew that she wasn’t about to start now— that got him navigating to a park outside the bookshop in one piece.

The trembling is back in his fingers as he stands on the sidewalk, staring at the door he knows far too well. It opens before him unbidden, and he finds that Aziraphale is nowhere to be seen. The bookshop beckons him in, warm and inviting and smelling of home to Crowley. With a deep breath, he crosses the threshold and heads to the back where he knows he’ll find Aziraphale.

He’s right, of course he’s right. He’s spent six-thousand years getting to know Aziraphale, he can predict his moves before Aziraphale even decides to make them. Aziraphale stands in the back of his shop, in front of a mirror, fixing his bowtie. Crowley halts the moment he sees Aziraphale, his feet stopping completely of their own accord, his mind shutting down entirely.

“Hello, dear,” Aziraphale greets as he meets Crowley’s gaze in the mirror. The ends of his bowtie are pinched delicately between his fingers and Crowley barely even registers the fact that this particular tartan happens to be made entirely out of shades of blue.

“Angel.” Crowley chokes out, his eyes traveling down Aziraphale’s figure in the mirror. The suit he’s wearing is completely white which in and of itself isn’t terribly surprising, Aziraphale has worn lighter colors for all of the years that Crowley has known him— beige, whites, tans, those were the colors Crowley associated Aziraphale with. The thing that amazed him though, was— “Is that suit from this century?”

“Oh hush.” Aziraphale admonishes, “Believe it or not, I  _ do _ know that fashion has continued to progress.”

“Not.” Crowley says immediately. “Believe it or not? I’m absolutely picking  _ not _ .”

“If you’d prefer, I can go ahead and change. But then we might be late.” Aziraphale huffs, smoothing his hands down the front of his suit and turning to look Crowley in the face directly finally.

Somehow, seeing it in the mirror and seeing it in person were completely different things. Crowley had thought that Aziraphale had looked stunning in his reflection, the brilliant white of the suit making him look every bit the angel he actually was. But now that they were actually facing each other, now that Crowley could really look at the blue tartan pocket square, the bow tie, the way the suit curved around Aziraphale beautifully, showing off his unfairly gorgeous shape, just putting it on display for anyone— especially Crowley— to stare at, Crowley found that his mouth was suddenly  _ very _ dry. 

“No, no.” Crowley tries to swallow around the words that are stuck in his throat. “No need for that. You look— dashing.”

“Dashing?” Aziraphale echoes, his eyebrows raising in amusement, the wry curl of a smile on the corners of his lips.

“What would you rather I say?” Crowley attempts to deflect, but he can feel the warmth creeping up his neck and threatening to paint his face a darker shade of red than his hair. “Angel, you look like a delicious present that I would love nothing more than to unwrap?”

It’s meant to be a joke, an absurd remark to diffuse the tension and give Crowley back some of the air that he can’t seem to fit in his lungs. It’s  _ meant _ to make Aziraphale huff and roll his eyes, mumbling something under his breath as he allows the topic to be dropped completely.

It is  _ not _ meant to cause Aziraphale’s smile to widen as he steps up to Crowley, gently straightening his tie and smoothing his hands down Crowley’s chest as he says, “You’re more than welcome to say that, yes.”

Crowley splutters, his chest on fire, the trail each finger had run seared into his skin. It was no doubt going to be tingling for the remainder of the night— a permanent reminder of the one thing he wants the most and the one thing he can’t have. “Angel?”

“Come on, dear boy, we’re going to be late.” Aziraphale says in response, the grin on his face far too large for Crowley to miss as he purposely skims over what just happened, and slips his hand into the crook of Crowley’s elbow, drawing him towards the entrance of the shop. 

* * *

Crowley had been to many plays in his lifetime. He’d been to opening days, he’d been to encore performances, he’d been to everything in between. Never had he had box seats.

“Oh,” Aziraphale gushes as they step through the curtain and onto their private expanse of balcony, “the view is lovely, don’t you think?”

Crowley glances around. He’s never had box seats but he’s fairly certain there supposed to be, well,  _ seats _ . Instead of individual seats, there is one long bench laden with plush cushions. The bench appears to be velvet, and it looks unbearably comfortable. Crowley can just imagine it trying to eat both of them whole when they sit down.

“Angel,” He says after a moment, “what’s this?”

Aziraphale follows Crowley’s vague gesture and raises a shoulder in what is clearly meant to be an innocent shrug. Crowley isn’t buying it. “It appears to be a bench. I’m certain you’ve seen one before.”

“ _ Angel _ .” Crowley warns, but it has no effect.

Aziraphale simply shoots him a warm smile and takes a seat on the bench that appears even bigger once Aziraphale is sitting on it. It seems to expand around him, plush pillows cushioning his back as he reclines, leveling Crowley with a look that is nothing short of completely illegal. Crowley tries to suck in a deep breath, his lungs burning and his stomach swooping as he desperately tries to remind himself that Aziraphale doesn’t know what he’s doing. It’s just Crowley’s imagination getting the best of him, just his thoughts getting carried away. It’s just his  _ mind _ .

But really, his mind can’t be blamed. There’s no chance that he would be able to look at Aziraphale, dressed to the nines, reclining like he was posing for a renaissance painting, and  _ not _ think about what it would be like to undo all those buttons. He couldn’t stare at Aziraphale for another second and not mentally undress him, not think about finding out just how big that bench is by spreading Aziraphale out across it, pulling him apart at the seams. Crowley wanted nothing more than to drive Aziraphale  _ mad _ , to have him writhing underneath Crowley’s lips as he breathed Crowley’s name on an exhale, the last syllable blending into a moan of pure pleasure.

Quickly, Crowley spins around in his spot, bracing his hands on the railing that overlooks the theater. He takes a shaky breath in and stubbornly commands his body to  _ listen _ . This is going to be a  _ long _ play if he has to sit next to Aziraphale on that bench, feeling every shift, every minuscule movement that Aziraphale makes. It was going to be the same kind of torture as standing next to the thing he wants most for six-thousand years and never even being able to  _ touch _ .

In other words, it’s exactly on brand for the way the rest of his life has gone.

The lights above start to dim and Crowley steps back, dropping down onto the bench next to Aziraphale. And even though it had looked so big when it had just been Aziraphale sitting on it, there doesn’t seem to be a position that Crowley can take where he isn’t pressed up against Aziraphale from hip to knee, their elbows bumping and their shoulders brushing. Crowley shifts and his hip drags against Aziraphale’s and he  _ swears _ he hears a shaky exhale from next to him. All thoughts seem to leave Crowley’s mind after that.

The play starts, but he’s hardly paying it any mind. He can’t do anything other than feel the press of Aziraphale’s knee against his thigh, the ghost of warm breath against the shell of his ear as Aziraphale leans over to whisper something entirely inconsequential to him. At some point, Aziraphale goes to change positions and the limited space leaves him with no option but to brace against Crowley’s knee. Crowley tries not to jump out of his skin at the contact, striving desperately to maintain the practiced cool he has mastered in all his years at Aziraphale’s side. He’s just starting to think that he’s managed that when Aziraphale settles in his seat and, instead of pulling his hand back, it slides a little higher up Crowley’s thigh.

Crowley gazes down at his hand, eternally thankful for the dim lights of the theater as he tries to piece together what, exactly, is happening. Six-thousand years of obeying a firmly drawn line seems to be evaporating in front of him as he sees Aziraphale’s hand creep higher and higher yet.

Finally, when it reaches a point that Crowley can’t ignore, he turns to gaze at Aziraphale— Aziraphale, whose cheeks are visibly flushed, even in the dark light of the room. “Angel?”

“I can stop.” Aziraphale replies, his voice somehow loud and clear despite the performance going on in front of them. “If you’d like.”

Crowley swallows, his throat thick and his tongue heavy. “And if I don’t want you to?”

Aziraphale turns to meet his gaze and his blue eyes are beautiful and completely unguarded. “Then I can keep going.”

The fire in Crowley’s gut ignites at the words and he finds himself thankful that he’s sitting down because his knees might have given out on him if he had been standing. They stare at each other for one long, heated moment, electricity seeming to crackle in the air around them. The play fades out, the rest of the crowd becomes entirely irrelevant as Crowley sucks in one single, shaky breath.

And on the exhale he murmurs, “So keep going.”

It happens almost instantly.

The hand on Crowley’s thigh turns from a gentle pressure into a tight grip as Aziraphale closes the gap between them and kisses Crowley with a fierceness he’s never experienced from the angel. Crowley lets out a hapless noise in response, his hands gripping the lapels of Aziraphale’s jacket and hauling him closer, pressing as many inches of the bodies together as he possibly can. Aziraphale’s other hand tangles in Crowley’s hair, brushing the longer edges behind his shoulders and using it as a way to deepen their kiss, tilting his head so that their mouths slot perfectly together.

Every fantasy Crowley had earlier— every fantasy he’s ever had in six-thousand years— is chased from his mind the moment he feels Aziraphale’s tongue swipe across his lips. Nothing he has ever dreamed up, nothing he has ever imagined in the deepest corners of his mind, has ever come close to comparing to this moment right here and now. 

Aziraphale groans low in his throat as he shifts and Crowley thinks he might actually be having a religious experience. Maybe he should believe in God after all, since She has apparently listened to the only wish of his that has ever really mattered.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice thick with need as he kisses a trail to Crowley’s jaw, nipping at the edge of it. “Oh,  _ Crowley _ .”

Crowley feels his heart stutter in his chest at the way Aziraphale says his name like a prayer, like it’s some gift that he’s been given and is determined to appreciate. He shudders under Aziraphale’s smart fingers as they make quick work of his sloppy tie, tugging it out of the collar of his shirt and throwing it off to the side. It’s only a moment before the top buttons are undone and Aziraphale is kissing at the exposed column of his throat. Crowley can feel heat pooling in his abdomen, rushing between his legs, can feel his cock growing harder with each passing second.

All thought abandons Crowley at that point. There’s nothing except the hot press of Aziraphale’s mouth on his skin, the plushness of his ass in Crowley’s palm. There’s nothing but the way Aziraphale slides a hand down to cup Crowley’s cock through his fancy trousers, drawing a long moan out of Crowley’s throat. There’s nothing but the way Aziraphale is shifting, pressing closer, pulling Crowley to him. It’s just Aziraphale— Aziraphale and the inferno that is blazing inside Crowley, lighting up every nerve ending on his body. 

“Fuck,” Crowley cusses, dropping his head back to expose more of his throat for Aziraphale. “Angel, I—“

“Do you have  _ any idea _ how good you look?” Aziraphale murmurs against the curve of his jaw, the shell of his ear, his hand working steadily but with maddening slowness through Crowley’s trousers still. “I could hardly control myself until we got here.”

It takes a minute for the words to filter in through the fog of Crowley’s brain, a minute for him to get past the feeling of soft curls gripped between his fingers, the way Aziraphale moans when he tugs on it. Once the realization does finally make its way to Crowley’s brain, though, he stills in his spot on the bench, opening his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. “Angel, did you  _ plan _ this?”

Aziraphale smiles brilliantly back at him, just the hint of that same teasing, wicked edge, and tugs Crowley to his feet. “I may have.”

And before Crowley can respond— not that he would have  _ any idea _ what to say to that anyways— Aziraphale is backing him up until his hips are hitting the railing that Is keeping them safe from the crowd below. Aziraphale kisses him soundly then, pressing his own hips firmly against Crowley’s in a steady rhythm that allows Crowley to feel the drag of Aziraphale’s equally hard cock against his thigh with each movement. And if everything before this had been hot, this was unfairly scorching and Crowley was certain that he wasn’t going to survive. But by God, it was going to be a way to die. He wouldn’t even mind the hassle of getting a new corporation after this.

His hands land on Aziraphale’s bowtie and he hesitates for just a moment, as if he’s waiting for Aziraphale to stop him, to pull back and bring this to an end. Aziraphale doesn’t do that. Instead he surges forward, his hands grabbing Crowley by the hips and dragging him closer so that there’s no space between them, not even enough room for doubts.

With surprisingly deft hands, Crowley tugs on the end of the bowtie and it unfurls underneath his fingers. He makes quick work of Aziraphale’s jacket, shoving it off of his shoulders and discarding it into a pile on the floor. Aziraphale’s hands are working at the buckle on his belt while Crowley undoes his shirt one button at a time, hands smoothing over every Inch of exposed skin that he can possibly get. Aziraphale’s skin is soft and heated under Crowley’s hands and he can’t stop himself from lapping at every inch of it, tasting it against his tongue and committing it to memory. He’s helpless to do anything other than tug the shirt out of Aziraphale’s pants and press kiss after kiss to his chest, his stomach, his shoulders. 

Aziraphale finally manages to undo Crowley’s belt and trousers and shoves them down with absolutely no finesse. The moment the cool air hits Crowley’s exploded legs, licking at the length of his heated cock, he snaps back to reality, the haze of lust receding for just a moment.

“Angel,” He gasps as Aziraphale closes a hand around the base of his cock and strokes slowly. “The humans.”

Aziraphale hums in agreement, his lips brushing against Crowley’s ear as he leans into murmur, “Well then you better not be too loud, darling.”

A tremor runs down Crowley’s spine, shaking him to his very core at the words. “They could see.”

“Let them see.” Aziraphale whispers back, his pace quickening as his second hand snakes around behind Crowley and grabs a handful of his ass. “Let them know that you’re mine.”

Crowley groans long and low, his head dropping down to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder at the words. After six thousand years of thinking of different ways to debauch Aziraphale, six thousand years of imagining what it would be like to drive Aziraphale mad with desire, to tempt him into the one thing he should never do, Crowley finds  _ himself _ the one being debauched, driven mad and tempted into desire. He wouldn’t change a thing about it.

He wouldn’t change a single thing about the way Aziraphale’s hand feels, his wrist twisting expertly on the downstroke, the pleasure shooting up Crowley’s spine. He wouldn’t change a single thing about the way Aziraphale is kissing him, like he’s the first drink of water after a long drought, like he’s something Aziraphale has been waiting for, wanting, craving for so long. He wouldn’t change a thing about the way he gasps into Aziraphale’s mouth, the sound swallowed whole as a finger finally breaches him, the movement so slow that Crowley can actually feel himself losing his mind.

Not one to be outdone— he is a demon, after all, temptation is supposed to be  _ his _ thing— Crowley makes quick work of Aziraphale’s trousers, discarding him of both those and his blue tartan boxers that match both his bowtie and his pocket square. Crowley grumbles something against Aziraphale’s mouth about how tartan will  _ never _ be stylish but they both know he’s wrong because by god, tartan has never turned someone on more in its entire existence. 

Once the offending clothing is gone, Crowley tugs Aziraphale closer by the open edges of his shirt and suddenly their cocks are sliding against each other, the heat of their bodies so electric that Crowley thinks the humans down below must be able to feel the sparks. He moans at the feeling of It and Aziraphale catches the moan in his own mouth, swallowing it whole.

“What did I say about being quiet, darling?” He asks, pulling his hands back and biting off another one of Crowley’s sounds when he mourns the loss. The hands settle on his hips and suddenly Crowley finds himself being flipped around, back pressed to Aziraphale’s stomach as Aziraphale’s cock slides gently against the cleft of his arse. “You don’t want the humans to hear you, do you?”

“Angel,” Crowley all but whines, pressing back into Aziraphale. 

One of Aziraphale’s hands smooths from Crowley’s hip across his abdomen, and up his chest, spending a brief moment of each of Crowley’s nipples, playing with them just gently enough to get Crowley squirming underneath his hands. After a moment, that same hand moves up to gently and loosely curl around Crowley’s throat as Aziraphale leans up to whisper in Crowley’s ear.

“Bend over.” He demands, all soft whispers and soft edges but sharp, controlling and unbearably hot.

“For fuck’s sake—“ Crowley mumbles, but he does as he’s told, bending over to place his forearms along the railing, his hands gripping the far edge of it. 

The crowd opens up below him, a bunch of faceless people enthralled in the play, their attention so focused on what’s happening before them that they have no idea that Aziraphale is currently two fingers deep, working Crowley agonizingly slowly, pressing kisses against his spine with each thrust of his fingers. Crowley drops his head, presses his forehead against the cool marble of the railing and shifts his hips back, pressing against Aziraphale’s fingers and holding on desperately out of fear that his knees might just give out completely. 

Aziraphale’s free hand snakes around Crowley’s body and takes his cock in hand again, stroking it in time with the thrusts of his fingers. Crowley bites the edge of his hand to try and keep quiet. 

“Are you ready, darling?” Aziraphale murmurs, his lips brushing Crowley’s spine, his fingers stilling completely. 

“Fuck, angel,  _ please— _ “

Crowley barely has a moment to mourn the loss of Aziraphale’s fingers before he feels the firm press of Aziraphale’s cock, hot and hard as it slowly slides into him, filling him completely. He knows there are people below, know that this is the height of impropriety, and he doesn’t give a single fuck. He moans as Aziraphale bottoms out inside of him, spreading his legs a little wider to give Aziraphale the best angle. There’s a pause where Aziraphale allows Crowley to get used to the delicious stretch, the overwhelming feeling of being full. 

And then, just as Crowley is about to demand that Aziraphale start moving, he feels strong hands on his hips that hold him in place as Aziraphale pulls almost all the way out before snapping his hips forward and driving back into Crowley with far more roughness than Crowley would’ve expected. He loves it, though, loves the way he has to cling to the banister to keep himself still, the firm press of Aziraphale’s fingers just inside his hip bones, holding him up as he sets an unrelenting pace. 

The play unfolds before Crowley, the lights dimming for dramatic effect and he doesn’t give one single shit. The humans are murmuring amongst themselves, whispering and pointing at the stage, obviously enthralled in something, but the only thing Crowley is enthralled in is the way Aziraphale shifts his hips, his cock pressing to Crowley’s prostate with a particularly strong thrust and causing Crowley to nearly leap over the banister at the sensation. The sound he lets out is far louder than he means it to be but he can’t help himself, can’t do anything to stop it as Aziraphale does it again, and then again after that.

On the next thrust, Crowley feels Aziraphale leaning over him and the moan is just about to be ripped out of his throat when he feels silky fabric being pressed against his lips, coaxed between his teeth. Crowley glances down briefly to recognize the blue tartan of the bowtie before biting down on it willingly, letting the fabric muffle his next moan.

“I don’t want them to hear these gorgeous sounds,” Aziraphale kisses the words into his shoulder, one hand leaving his hip to travel the length of his inner thigh, fingers brushing Crowley’s balls as they do so. “Those sounds are only for  _ me _ .”

Crowley whimpers around the bowtie, the pleasure cresting inside of him. Aziraphale’s hips haven’t stuttered, not a single time, his pace steady as he continues to fill Crowley up over and over again, pressing affirmations into his skin and dragging him closer and closer to the edge. Aziraphale is making gorgeous sounds of his own, quietly under his breath so that nobody besides Crowley gets to enjoy them and Crowley does his best to commit them to his memory, to lock them away through the haze of his brain so that he may relive them later. 

There’s background music with the play, building to a crescendo around them that echoes the building pressure inside Crowley. He feels it pooling low in his gut, feeling it begging for release. Aziraphale seems to know he needs it too, and his hand finds Crowley’s cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts. Crowley’s eyes fall shut as he bites down hard on the bow tie, his hands fisting in the extra material as blinding pleasure shoots through his body. The climax comes all at once, and Crowley can only cling to the railing, trusting Aziraphale’s hands on his hips to keep him standing as the waves wrack through his body, making him see white.

He comes down from his high just in time to feel Aziraphale’s hips stuttering unevenly against him, to hear the breathy curses Aziraphale is whispering to the air between them and he can feel the throb of Aziraphale’s cock inside of him as he rides out his own waves of pleasure. 

It takes a few moments for them to center back on themselves and when Crowley does, he realizes that the crowd below is clapping and the lights are brightening, exposing their sins to the world. 

“That,” Crowley pants against the railing, his hands holding the limp bowtie between them now that he no longer needs it between his teeth, “was much better than the bloody play.”

Aziraphale hums, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s back as he slides out of him. “That, darling, was just the first act.”

Crowley’s head whips around, ignoring the feeling of being cleaned up that comes with the sound of Aziraphale snapping his fingers. “What?”

Aziraphale gestures around them. “It’s intermission now, darling.” And then his smile turns decidedly wicked and Crowley feels his knees tremble. “Which means that act two will be coming soon.”


End file.
